WotW - the surgeon

i set a patient asidefor experimentation, like a needlesewing through the pages of a bible,wild imagination wildconstellations to shine a spotlight in between;a pinhole picture, a holy man doused in fire...

and then there i am shuddering on the floor of a white walled memory wondering where the pigment got off to

soon, too soon,great goodness in the heart on the surgeons bedside tablebarely able to recognize the quickening eyelashes of its old masterrising soul like a creek over a body that has given up prematurely

surely,those who deserve to one day live purely,live again until they do

surely, no good person dies without the staple of the crossand no bad person dies without the promise of truth

poured buckets of ice water upside-down my nostrilsbut it wasn’t enough to satisfy,so i peeled off my own fingernails with pliersand there were live children shriveling mummified in dust,nine women lined up in unzipped bags faces hardened in curses and lust,i cut into my chest with hanging nails so hard that god could feel the rusti prayed, to the possibility of a sudden radical quieteverywhere all at once until there were no hooded men left on screen...

after the journalist was shot his camera kept rolling on in the silence of its own gearboxwhile i stalked the gun my arm dragging out of its socket, fingers twitching like limp rockets

and when i caught my eye with a fish hook and had shot an open wound in my thighand the mirror bearing witness, and my vocal chords dangling bloody and dry,and in the sunrise on the live stream i could see the moon's shadow vaporize, i realized that no one deserves to die,not even i